


Some Gentle Dove

by sans_patronymic



Series: The Domesticated Detective [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domestic Fluff, M/M, Mischief, POV Sherlock Holmes, Retirement, Sussex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-17 08:02:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,461
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8136490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sans_patronymic/pseuds/sans_patronymic
Summary: In retirement, Holmes begins to turn naturalist, while Watson makes new friends. Trouble arises when Watson's desire for order interferes with Holmes's bird-watching.Conclusion: Holmes returns to society and Watson is up to something.





	1. The Science of Deduction, Re-examined

The science of deduction is not terribly complicated. It requires merely the unity of keen observation with a mind free of inference, assumption, or prejudice. I am fortunate enough to be a man naturally gifted in the latter; the former, is easily learnt.

In my many years in London, I curated my talents in observation, sharpening the tools of my trade on passers-by, cabbies, and telegram officers alike. No man was a stranger to me, for a glance at his cuffs told me of his absent-mindedness, and the sight of his walking stick informed me of the troubles with his disrespectful valet. Busy city streets are always piled with such a curious assortment of persons that when all the world was steeped in boredom, turning a weary eye to the teeming swarm of human activity never failed to amuse me.

Even as I grew ready and willing—I will not say ‘eager’—for retirement, I was very loathed to leave behind the crowds of town. In our village there are no crowds, no strangers, merely _neighbors_. It is no great feat to learn the intimate details of any person in a place such as this. The task is readily undertaken by the resident busybody, and performed with greater ease and skill than a mere detective such as myself can manage. The culprit here is our own Miss Thwaites, and in her hands, it is rather more impressive for a person to maintain vague privacy in the face of her curiosity, than it is for me to infer that the barman’s sister has an unhappy marriage. That Miss Thwaites has not yet discovered the true nature of myself and my companion, I credit to the fact she is a single woman of a certain age, and that, in her opinion, it is very unlikely so handsome and eligible a widower as my Watson should remain unmarried for the rest of his days.

Yet, the country is not without its charms and entertainments. I am learning to appreciate the change of seasons, much clearer and more complete than in London. Here, I have discovered another constantly changing mass of strangers—of the floral and faunal variety. Here, too, I can look out my window and find diversion: flowers which bloom and fade, leaves which change their hue, creatures who call my home theirs, if only seasonally. True that Nature does not bother herself with crimes _per se_ —is it a crime when a hungry fox raids a rabbit’s warren?—yet, I will admit to a schoolboy’s fascination with tadpoles, birds’ nests, and all manner of mysteries which throng the countryside. It is with Nature’s aid I have been sharpening my wits.

I have said the science of deduction is not terribly complicated. Keen observation, mind free of inference, etc. I have no cause to distrust my skill for observation; I know the mole’s plot to turn our front lawn into his mansion, and I can spot a hare at forty paces. I have no doubts in the sharpness of my eyes. Permit me, then, to wax foreboding when I say that age, I fear, has begun to wear tracts of thought upon my brain, obscuring my reasoning with comfortable assumptions as to how things are, or how I fear they _might_ be. Where one possesses strong emotions, one is liable to fool oneself. What follows is an account of my most recent lesson in that ephemeral art, my most beloved devotion, and sometimes not _entirely_ simple science of deduction.


	2. In My Lonely Bow'r

It was April of the first year of our retirement, and we had already begun to fall into the rhythm of our new life. For me, this includes a vast swath of slow, lazy mornings mostly spent making, consuming, and remaking coffee. Sunlight slowly parades itself across the floorboards, illuminating the swirling dance of dust motes. Watson putters about, laying plans for the day while I am strongly debating returning to bed.

Our story began on one such morning, as I sat, bleary-eyed and still dressed for bed, administering my third dose of coffee, and admiring through the window the playful chase of two squirrels in the back garden. Watson gusted into the room, already dressed in breeches and a Norfolk jacket, flat cap securely on his head. My tweed general, ready to do battle with the countryside. He was the picture of a country squire, and I told him as much.

“Ferguson is coming by with some of his sons to help clear out the gutter trough,” he announced, “You might think about getting dressed yourself. They’ll be here within the hour.”

“That man has so many children, it is a wonder we are not all Fergusons,” I remarked somewhat dourly, for it seemed far too early an hour for company, and Ferguson’s brood always struck me as excessive. “Perhaps someone should consider buying him and his wife concert tickets. Or a book.”

“Hush, Ferguson is a good man.” Watson bent down, and placed a kiss upon my lips with a throaty rumble, which usually means he is thinking about ravishing me. “Imagine how many sons we’d have, if that were an issue.”

“As vain as I am, and as handsome as you—I should think we would lose most of them to accidental drowning, like Narcissus.”

“You’re ghastly.” But he was chuckling all the same, and slipped out of the kitchen door, calling: “I’m going to get the ladder out of the shed!”

Watson was correct, of course; Samuel Ferguson is a good man. Honest, compassionate, and being rather ingenious in repair and maintenance work, he is precisely the sort of man, as my brother might say, whom a politician wishes to claim as evidence of the health of our great empire. Select any fence, summer house, patched roof, or kitchen shelf in the village, and odds are two to one that Ferguson built it. We had first made his acquaintance a few months prior, when a winter gale all but removed the front portico from our cottage. Ferguson was the one to repair it, and he made such an impression upon my companion that, for better or worse, he has become as much a fixture in our lives as the awning he restored. Should one find a certain Doctor to have consumed more than his fair share of ale, the odds there, too, are two to one that Ferguson is responsible.

Having no desire to be caught up in the ebullient reunion of the two friends, I retreated upstairs to my study, where the hodgepodge of my latest chemical endeavors lay strewn across my desk, commingling carelessly with notes, abandoned teacups, and clippings of newsprint. Sitting at the bench, I spent a few, fruitless minutes attempting to make sense of the clutter. I made little progress and soon began drifting into solemn thoughts.

I do not dislike Ferguson—indeed, he is the sort of man who is almost impossible to dislike—yet, his friendship with Watson sparked within me some weak flame of jealousy. I could not say precisely why. I am not a jealous man; I do not equate love with possession, but there is something in Watson’s ease of manner, the joy he finds in the company of others, which I shall never know. He is an easy friend to make, my John, and a delightful one to have; quick-witted, amusing, and a terribly patient listener. It should come as no surprise to the reader that he has become beloved by not only Ferguson, but the whole village.

The same cannot be said of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. I have always been a man of few friends and since our move to the country I had retreated within myself, no longer forced by proximity or necessity to immerse myself in the crowds, such as there were crowds to be had. The best company I could boast, beyond Watson’s estimable companionship, was two pigeons who had made their nest in the eaves outside the window of my study. I drew aside the curtain, hoping to amuse myself with their affectionate antics. I found only an empty nest. They too, it seemed, had better company to keep than this lonely old man.

And so I sat, feeling very sorry for myself. My gaze followed the path from our front door towards the road and as I looked out over the heath towards the downs, my legs longed to follow. A walk, I mused, might stir my leadened blood, and drive my mind towards better thoughts. _The fresh air will do you good_ , John’s doctoral-tone echoed in my mind. Resolved not to wallow, or, at least, to put my wallowing into motion, I rose to make myself ready.

I had scarcely managed to dress before the sounds of raucous laughter and hearty conversing told me Ferguson had arrived. I made my way downstairs and out to the front lawn. There, I found Watson, face splitting with laughter, his hand clapped affectionately on Ferguson’s shoulder. Ferguson was in the midst of some bawdy anecdote—judging from the gesticulation of his fingers, one that was not meant to be overheard by his sons. For their part, James and Henry, his two eldest, were meanwhile struggling to raise the extension ladder against the side of the house. Upon seeing me, Henry paused to wave enthusiastically in my direction, leaving James to stumble with the full weight of the ladder on his own. 

“Hello, Mr. Holmes!” 

“Hello, Henry.”

“Are you going to watch us put the ladder up?” asked Henry, with a shine in his voice which said this was a Very Big Task and he was very pleased to be entrusted with it.

“Perhaps,” I answered, “I suppose it should be rather thrilling, wouldn’t you agree, James?”

James, who was of an age and temperament during which little enthusiasm can be raised for much of anything, offered me a shrug. 

“How are you today, James?” I asked, mostly because he wished I wouldn’t. 

“Fine, sir,” was the curt reply, the ladder clattering as it slipped through his grip.

“Perhaps you had better give him a hand,” I whispered to Henry.

I smiled, I regret to say, at James’s expense. There was something archetypical in the suffering of his adolescence, fueled by nothing more and nothing less than the passage of time and the sea change of youth’s end. He has since grown into a fine, pleasant young man, shedding his sullenness of those earlier years. It amuses me still to remember him as the scowling, quiet boy, frustrated to discover that life is made of such petty miseries as temperamental ladders.

Watson’s hand against my arm tore me from my musing. It was a fleeting touch, an invitation to join his conversation with Ferguson. Obediently, I turned, my eyes meeting Ferguson’s, and I was struck suddenly the same melancholy shyness I ascribed to his son.

“There you are, Mr. Holmes. Wasn’t sure I’d catch a glimpse of ya today.”

“I thought you might be busy with your new blood analysis,” Watson explained with a pointed look. That was to be my alibi for my lack of sociability.

He had not, I could tell, expected to see me out of the house, not to mention dressed for a country walk. Was there a hint of panic in those blue eyes? Or has my mind since added that, knowing what it now does? In any event, I found myself glancing between the two of them, fumbling in silence for some reply.

“No,” I blurted into the awkward air between us. “No, I thought I should have a walk.”

“Nice day for it,” noted Ferguson, before turning his attention to his sons. “Henry! Don’t let me catch ya climbin’ up there! James, keep an eye on yer brother!” 

“Where will you walk to?” Watson asked, turning to me.

His brow creased with concern and I tried to brighten the no doubt dour expression on my face. It is enough to feel gloomy without plaguing others with concern. Like James, I shrugged.

“I haven’t decided—over the downs, perhaps as far as the shoreline, if I’m up for it. A good, long ramble to clear the cobwebs.”

“And luncheon? It’s after eleven already.”

My steadfast soldier, who tells the time by his stomach.

“Don’t wait for me; I’m not terribly hungry.”

“Well now,” called Ferguson, returning to us, “We’re ready to get started.” 

By now, Henry had been coaxed from the ladder, and James reminded he was, indeed, his brother’s keeper. Both boys looked disappointed with their lot. In an instant, Ferguson’s hand was on Watson’s back, steering him towards the ladder and away from me.

“I wish ya’d let me trim this beech, Watson—that’s where the bulk of the leafage is comin’ from. That besides, if that branch carries on, it’ll want to go straight through yer window.”

“I shall leave you gentlemen to it,” I uttered, perhaps rather more coldly than intended, and made my escape.


	3. Far and Near

It has been a singular joy of my so-called ‘golden years’ to wander. True, these feet have trodden their fair share of miles; as the late Mrs. Hudson could attest, I have worn many a tract into a fine rug with my marathons of contemplative pacing, and trailed in muck from every corner of London. But, there is walking and then there is rambling, carousing, letting oneself be subsumed by the sights, sounds, and smells of Nature, watching the nuthatch build its nest, examining the fruiting body of a _Pleurotus_ on the side of an oak. Such are my arcane delights.

That afternoon, I followed the road south, away from the village, not wishing to cross paths with any of our neighbors. I continued along for some time, until the hills began to give way in the distance to the white, chalky cliffside and the air took on the bright sting of the sea. There, I stepped from the road into the tall grass which was bent and flattened by the coastal winds. The spring sun was bright, though not yet strong enough to beat back the chill which hung in the air. Cold settled into my right hip and I regretted not choosing some heartier clothes. As I continued on, I sped my pace in hopes of warming myself, pushing my way towards the sound of the surf.

The water was grey and frothing, though I had little opportunity to admire it. No sooner did the channel spring into view than I was blasted with a salty gail. My jacket blew open, needles of cold air pierced my jumper and stung at my eyes. I turned, managing to button myself properly only to have another gust pull the hat from my head and send it tumbling back into the grass. I could do no more than to clamor after it, defeated.

There is nothing quite like a strong wind to remind one of Man’s frailty. Nature pays no heed to something so petty. The trees merely rock and sway. Overhead, swallows and wagtails fly against the wind, carrying on with their avian doings as though unhindered. Cows do not even pause in their grazing. Yet, here was I, cosseted as I was in my waterproof, struggling against the wind, chasing my hat hither and yon, cursing my luck as a foul step led me straight through the mud. Nature did not owe it to me to be my idyllic respite, and, I concluded, I may never be hearty enough to withstand it if she were.

The afternoon was already threatening to become evening by the time I managed to locate my hat. In my desire to lose myself to observation, I had failed to take note of my own position, and so, returning to the road, I suddenly found myself rather farther afield than I had anticipated; it would take me well over an hour to reach the cottage. My desire to continue my wandering waned along with the daylight; soggy-footed and cold, I turned homeward. With each step, I thought of the comforts awaiting me there: hot tea, my favorite chair, a warm supper, Watson’s gentle chiding about not eating enough, perhaps even Ferguson & Sons to entertain with local gossip.

It was nearly dark by the time I returned. As I topped the final hill, and our cottage fell once more into view, my heart swelled with the promise of company and dry socks. The walk had performed its curative magics over me after all, though perhaps not entirely as I expected. I shut the door behind me with the most profound relief. Ferguson and his sons had gone, and I confess I was a bit sorry to have missed them. In the sitting room, Watson sprawled across the chesterfield, nose buried within the folds of the paper. All else was blissful stillness, the only sounds the ticking of the clock and the turn of the page.

"Where have you been?" replied Watson to my kiss 'hello'.

"Everywhere—“ I settled into my chair with a sigh, kicking off muddy shoes and pretending not to notice Watson's disapproving frown. Rugs were made to be cleaned. "Ah—I have been everywhere and now I am famished. Please do tell me you've made something for supper."

“Just a chicken and some potatoes,“ he answered with a good attempt at modesty. Only a week before had Mrs. Keeler demonstrated how to truss and roast a bird, and Watson and I had an unspoken wager on which of us would be brave enough to attempt it first.

"Did you _really_? Oh, darling, you're a saint."

Watson nodded and turned the page, trying his best to appear unaffected by my praise, though I caught the trace of a pleased smile below his mustache. He is not terribly good at keeping a straight face, my John, but his attempts are utterly bewitching.

”I’m afraid you'll have to dine alone,” he continued, “I’ve already eaten, and there's a village council meeting tonight." 

“Oh, not _that_ again,” I groaned and rose to join him on the chesterfield. “It is bad enough to have my brother in politics without losing you to it as well.”

“This isn’t _exactly_ politics. More organized bickering.”

“Politics.”

The paper was put aside, legs, reshuffled. We intertwined ourselves neatly along the sofa’s surface. I laid my head against John’s shoulder and drank in the warm, comforting feel of him. The muscles in my legs twitched, protesting their overuse. A good soak was in order, and then… 

"Don't go," I insisted in a tone which I hoped conveyed my own plans for the evening.

"I rather have to—I already agreed to be on the committee for the summer fête. Though," he smirked at me, "I can't imagine it will take all night." 

"When must you leave? I have some points of order to bring up with you myself..." 

"Half an hour."

"Not nearly enough time."

"Isn't it?" Clever surgeon’s fingers had pried my shirttails free and were skating softly along my skin.

"For what I have planned for you? Hardly. Besides,” continued I, sitting up and attempting to straighten myself, playfully ignoring his caresses. “I think we should both prefer it if I were bathed and fed first."

"I don't mind.”

"Then I should prefer it," I insisted, squirming from his grip with a grin. "But please, do not let complaints about the tardiness of the post, or arguments over a fair price for a coconut shy dampen your enthusiasm."

"With every grievance, I will think only of you!" John called after me as I made my way up the stairs.

 _Damn village council meetings_ , I thought as I wandered about the upstairs rooms, searching here and there for cast-off dressing gown and slippers. It ought not to have surprised me when John accepted the position, for it is still considered a respectable thing for a man to be a _councilman_ in these parts—an antiquated notion, befitting our quaint, country lives—and Watson has always courted respectability. I should not go so far as to accuse him of being a _do-gooder_ , but one must make one’s own evaluation of a man who, upon retiring from his medical practice, immediately dedicates every other Thursday to negotiating petty property disputes and debating the relative merits of a new clocktower.

The quest for slippers had led me back to my desk, and I was struck with a sudden urge to ‘check-up’, as it were, on my pigeons. I suppose we each have our own manner of dealing with the sudden burdens of retirement. Like a Watson to council meeting, I was drawn to the window’s edge. With my hands cupped about my eyes, I peered out, trying to make out shapes in the growing darkness. There was the edge of the roof; there, the downspout; there, nestled against the corbel was nothing.

Nothing?

I blinked. I staggered. I blinked again and peered again, but the pell-mell nest of twigs and feathers was gone. A hollow, vacant sensation flooded my mind and I rushed to the top of the stairs, clutching the banister between white-knuckled fingers.

“John!” I cried, “Where are the pigeons?”

“What?” asked he, head appearing from around a corner.

“The pigeon nest,” I began again, thundering my way down the stairs, “outside my window. It’s gone.” 

“Ah,” he said, still failing to, or perhaps, choosing not to notice my concern. “I asked Ferguson to clear that out while he was up there.” 

“You… you _asked_ him to?”

“Well, yes.”

I stood, frozen with disbelief. Gone? Dispelled? Cast out by my own Jove’s command? It seemed unthinkable. They had been my birds, _our_ birds. 

In a flash, I recalled how we had first heard the lone male cooing his plaintive song one spring morning, echoing all through the eaves and into our bedroom. Wrapped together in the quilt, we had taken turns imitating him. The poor wretch would coo and cry from sunrise to dusk, until his haunting call grew hoarse and raspy. I would listen and wonder if birds knew what it is to be lonely. Then, at last, the arrival of the mate, and with her, the slow building of the nest, of their joint lives, of the promise of chicks.

I had planned to watch each phase of development carefully, to chart their growth. I had done my research. I knew a rock dove was fully grown in thirty days, that they permanently alight after three months. By the time they would take to their fledgling wings, I would have a very tidy study completed. John knew my interest, and I would have thought, shared it, at least a little. I did not expect him to join me in birdwatching any more than he expected me to join him at the village council, yet I never suspected him to sabotage me in this way.

Finally, I became aware of Watson’s voice. It was a question, I think, though my mind would not put the words together in the right order. A hand came to rest upon my shoulder. I brushed it away.

“How can you be so cruel?” I asked, rather more harshly than I meant.

“I wasn’t being _cruel_. The birds aren't injured, for Christ-sakes. There weren't any eggs—they'll make a new nest somewhere."

"That is hardly the point. I can't believe you would be so incredibly callous."

"Oh, come off it, you're being ridiculous—“

"Ridiculous?"

"They're just pigeons, Sherlock. They would have only made a mess on the window frame and clogged the drain trough."

"I am being ridiculous?"

I was, of course, being rather ridiculous. Had my walk not demonstrated the hardiness and indifference of Nature? Did I truly think the pigeons would pay anymore heed to the destruction of their nest than they would to a storm, or a fallow lack of seeds? And as for me, could I truly think Watson callous and insensitive towards my interests when I had so many years worth of evidence to the contrary? It benefitted neither Holmes nor fowl to crow on about what had already been done. I should have been much better off had I dropped the subject then and there. Nevertheless, my hurt was genuine, and so I barreled on, foolhardy and full of ire.

" _Ridiculous_?" I repeated with growing incredulity, "I am not the one who forced us to move to this... this _horrid_ village. _I_ am not the one who insisted I retire. I'm not so old—I’ve got my wits—I ought to be in London, straightening out police inspectors or apprehending counterfeiters, instead of trapped here, in this miserable little place. I have never been so frightfully bored in all my life, but at least, I thought, at least I can sit and make an armchair naturalist of myself. But no. No, no. You must take even _that_ from me." 

This had been, as the reader might suspect, a terribly _wrong_ thing to say. Watson blanched. His blue eyes grew sharp as ice and his demeanor just as cold. His jaw set. I wished instantly, and not for the last time, I could rescind my words. Wish as I might, I could not stuff them back into my mouth, could never swallow them up—they made for a very bitter pill.

Without a word, Watson walked to the front hall. I watched as he reapplied his Norfolk jacket, doing up the buttons with solemn attention. The flat cap returned to his head. With the doorknob in his hand, he turned back to face me.

“You might not find this place so horrid, if you made more of an effort to like it.” 

“John…”

 “There are good people here, some I think you might rather like, if you gave them the opportunity.”

His tone was sincere, though his words seemed worn about the edges, rehearsed. This was something, I was sure, he had long desired to say. I looked at my hands, at the floorboards, at the ceiling, eyes roving all about as if I might find something suitable to say scribbled in some secret place. I dared not meet his gaze. John mumbled something about the chicken warming in the oven, and was gone before I could reply.

By the light of the lamp at the kitchen table, my outburst seemed very ridiculous, indeed. I do not dislike our quiet life. I do not, strictly speaking, dislike any of our neighbors. Yet, in the last week with whom besides Watson had I even spoken? Ferguson, James, Henry, Mrs. Keeler, and her Molly—and simply because business had brought them to our doorstep. I could not remember the last time I had ‘visited’ with anybody. I had not been to town in over a fortnight; I had hardly left the house. I had hermitted myself.

Within our cottage walls, I have felt the most at home and the most _myself_ as I ever have. Here, kisses need not be stolen or secret. Here, books and files and papers may be arrange precisely as I see fit. Here, violin playing need not be relegated to ‘reasonable hours’—reasonable hours are up for negotiation. And here sat I, Sherlock Holmes, picking meat from the bone with my fingers, sniffling over a pigeon nest. It is thus that I truly am, not as the papers or even my devoted Boswell would paint me; eccentric and bizarre in ways that do as much to hinder my brilliance as they do to aid it. Perhaps, I mused, that was the cause of my reluctance to join in village life. 

By the time I had finished my supper, the prospect of a bath no longer sounded enticing. My legs still protested, not twitching now, though I began to suspect my bones had been replaced by jelly. I quivered back upstairs on unsteady feet. I missed my pigeons; I missed my John; it felt a particularly cruel trick to lack both. I readied myself for bed, though it was still very early, and burrowed beneath the covers, longing for sleep.

 

It was many hours before I heard the front door open and close. The stairs creaked, the bedroom door creaked, the bed creaked. A warm rush of comfort ran through me as Watson pressed himself along my spine. He smelled of warm pints and stale tobacco, and from the way his arm pulled me closer, I knew at least several of those pints had gone into him. 

“And how goes the committee meeting?” I asked, not without some lingering bitterness in my voice.

John rumbled, happy to find me awake, and kissed the back of my neck. “Fine, fine. The archdeacon is the chair. He looked very handsome tonight, you will be pleased to know.”

I once made the error of mentioning to my companion that if Archdeacon Hoccleve had one fewer each of wives and gods, he would be precisely the type of man I might fancy. Watson has never let me forget this. 

“I didn’t realize the archdeacon would approve of a meeting at the public house.”

John shook his head against the pillows and hugged me closer. “Went there afterwards with Ferguson. He’s building a dunking booth for the fête. Would you like to be dunked? We would do well to have our local celebrity as the main attraction…”

“You’re jiggered.”

 “Very keen observation, my dear. You ought to be a detective.”

His hand slid along my side, attempting to ferret its way into the trousers of my pajamas. I caught it in my own, lacing our fingers together, and felt the tell-tale divots of darts held too firmly.

“I see you lost at darts again.”

An amused rumble rose through his chest and reverberated against my back. Mustachioed kisses made themselves known along my neck. 

“How do you know I lost?”

“You never let me hear the end of it when you win.” 

The rumble returned, blossoming into full laughter. John’s hand wriggled free of my own, diving beneath my nightclothes to spread warm, welcome fingers against my skin. Apologies had not yet been spoken, nor forgiveness offered, nevertheless, as I turned to embrace him, my lips sought his. In a cozy tangle, offenses were forgotten, and the echoes of harsh words silenced. We enveloped one another, until sleep came sweetly, and even there, I dreamt only of our happiness, roiling and crashing upon one another as waves upon the shore.


	4. Return to Civilization

The next morning was grey and dull. Rain had crept in overnight, and the lingering clouds kept me in bed much later than I intended. When I finally awoke it was with a groggy disorientation, memories of the previous night weighing heavy upon my mind. I had hoped sleep and the distance of time should have softened the blow, yet as I threw open the curtains and was confronted with the hollow in the eaves where the nest had been, the sting was just as potent.

I found John in the kitchen, cracking eggs onto toast in the pan with surgical precision. His hair had only been half-neatened, his shirtsleeves pushed up to the elbow; he hummed quietly, taking no notice of me as he waited for the eggs to fry. I suppose I ought to have been cross with him still—the cause of my distress—yet, seeing him in his morning serenity, I wanted only to wrap myself in the succorous tangibility of him.

“Careful, this pan’s hot,” he cautioned as my arms coiled about his waist.

I craned my chin over his shoulder to rub one bestubbled cheek against his own. Eggs crackled and sputtered against butter. Through the window, the air carried traces of last night’s rain, which mingled with the smells of breakfast and Watson. Why, I wondered, should I ever wish to subject myself to the company of others, when all the best things in life could be found in my very own kitchen?

“You’re making it rather difficult to flip these.”

I, for lack of a better word, mewled: a petulant, drowsy sort of noise. With a kiss, I disentangled myself and took my seat, like a good child, waiting for my breakfast. I traced circles against the table, considering again Watson’s urging to, as he’d put it, ‘make more of an effort’ to like the village and its inhabitants. He had made no mention of his plea, and I knew very well he should have let me ignore it if I wished. And yet, had there ever been a request of his I declined to fulfill?

“This one is yours,” John declared as he set the plate before me. “The yolk oughtn’t be too runny.”

It demands to be said that, while I am generally better entrusted with the task of cooking, Watson is a wizard with eggs. Where I am too impatient, he is unwavering; where I am neglectful, he is diligent. The result, as it was that morning, is an exquisitely fried egg, surrounded by a crisp halo of toast. A simple enough treasure for one such as myself. I smiled at my plate, and without knowing precisely why, I found I had made up my mind. I looked up.

“I think I shall go into town today,” I declared, nearly surprisingly myself with my own determination.

“Oh yes?” asked he as though I had just said something rather ordinary, as though I were not speaking of breaking my self-imposed exile.

“Yes. I—“ I hesitated, groping for some safe mooring for my abstract courage, a purpose to which to pin it. “I am very nearly out of acetone, I should rather not wait…”

My excuse was a flimsy one, and my partner knew it, though he did not say anything immediately. Watson was focused supremely—rather too supremely—on his plate. Once again, I caught the glimmer of a proud smile upon his lips. When he finally spoke, it was all but with a smirk:

“If you do go, could you swing ‘round Argosy’s and pick me up something to read?”

Now, it was my turn to grin. A very clever trick, my darling—as Mr. Argosy is a pleasant little man, who can never let me escape his shop without first talking off one or both of my ears. A visit to Argosy’s bookshop would doubtless mean I should be socialized, and how.

“Certainly,” I answered with renewed boldness. I supposed, after my hermitage, I rather deserved a talking-at, and I was not one to shrink from a challenge. “What would you like?”

“Anything.” He paused in his chewing, made a face, and a correction: “Nothing _too_ bleak, or too _odd_.”

I nodded sagely. “ _Historic Mansions and Highways of the South Downs_.”

“A novel, please.”

“I thought you said nothing too odd.”

We grinned at one another before returning to our breakfasts. I considered my new itinerary with a growing hopefulness. As I cut into my toast, I was not at all surprised to find my egg had been cooked perfectly.


	5. The Dunking Booth

So it was that I quietly reinserted myself into the lives of our neighbors. I continued, at first, with my erroneous errands, fetching things which I ordinarily would have had delivered; when the day called for more milk or pipe tobacco or another book, I donned my jacket and strolled into town. April gave way to May, and as the weather warmed, I fully emerged from my hibernal lair, making the journey several times a week. Summer drew closer, and Watson was more often occupied with preparations for the summer fête. We formed a habit of walking together to town, and while he and Ferguson delved into their work, I entertained myself here and there, renewing embryonic friendships.

I half-expected to be greeted with slack-jawed stares—the ghost of a man long presumed dead walking down the main road—but hardly anyone registered the colossal importance of my return to civilization. I found I had constructed for myself a pariah-like existence, which was inconsistent with reality. In truth, I did not mind being sociable, particularly after a pint or two when waiting for Watson’s return, and many people did not mind socializing with me. It seemed most everyone delighted to hear tales of my more famous cases, and I happily obliged. Watson is not the only storyteller among us. I shudder to think what Mycroft should say to see me spinning tales before the, admittedly, rather misfit crowd at the public house, yet I confess I delight in such worldly applause. There is a performative element to it which, in the right mood and the right setting, makes it rather exhilarating to once more don the character of the brilliant and enigmatic man they expect. Watson and Ferguson would disappear to tend to their dunking booth, while I disappeared into Sherlock Holmes, detective, before an ever-rotating audience.

 

I was thusly employed, recalling, with the appropriate amount of exaggeration, how Jabez Wilson inadvertently led us to the foiling of a bank robbery, on the afternoon during which our present story resumes. It was by then late-May, and with the fête looming on the horizon, it was the third day in a row Watson had deposited me in town early in the morning in favor of his work with Ferguson. Morning came and went, and I lunched at the Red Lion, wherein I had been persuaded by two local men to recount for them that particular tale. Watson and I, in my narrative, had just concluded our very informative interview with Mr. Spaulding, when the landlord’s voice cut-in.

“Time, please, gentlemen,” announced Mr. Pertwee, who, long before the War required it, had instituted his own afternoon closings, perhaps for no other reason than to force his most regular customers to change seats and shirtfronts.

 I settled my account with Pertwee, and, with assurances to finish my tale another day, bid farewell to my companions. The afternoon sun was bright and warm with the promise of summer, and my meal-time draught gave to everything a pleasant haze. I wandered past shop windows and front gates, putting no particular purpose to my direction. Past the chemist’s, beyond Argosy’s, the buildings ahead dissolved into residences, and I found I had placed myself on the road to Ferguson’s doorstep. _And why not?_ I mused, for Watson had already spent several hours there that morning and three more days that week besides—he could stand to be brought home early this once.

No sooner had I made my decision when a call of shrill delight redirected my gaze to a wide-brimmed woman’s hat bobbing hastily just over a front hedge.

“Mr. Holmes!” called the hat, and as it emerged past the hedge, I discovered it belonging to Miss Thwaites, fastened to her head quite forcefully by a tulle ribbon, tied into a rather overwhelming bow beneath her rounded chin. In the narrow gap between hat brim and bow, clever, nosey eyes peered out at me.

“Oh, Mr. Holmes, it _is_ you. Fancy such a chance meeting!”

“Good afternoon, Miss Thwaites. You picked a lovely day for gardening.”

She laughed rather too heartily and gripped my hand with such firm determination that I feared Watson was not the only confirmed bachelor on whom she had set her sights.

“Gardening! Why, however did you guess? I hope I haven’t soil all over me… oh—of _course_ , my hat!—very clever of you. Oh, but where can you be off to? It isn’t often one can get you to this side of town, par _tic_ ularly so near to teatime.” 

I watched as her face brightened with the thought of inviting me in, then dimmed quickly with the worried look of someone unsure of one’s larder. Not wishing to cause her undue distress, I quickly assured her I would be unable to join her, as I was presently off to tear Watson away from his work for the summer fête. 

"Work?" She cried, "I should hope so. We haven't seen that rascal around the committee meetings for _weeks_. Why, I was just saying to Agatha—I mean, Mrs. Hoccleve—I was just saying to Mrs. Hoccleve, that he _has_ been rather delinquent in his attendance. I mean, for a new councilman and all."

"I suppose he has been committing his time to helping Ferguson with the dunking booth," answered I, hoping my face did not belie too strongly my dislike to hear Watson so familiarly slandered.

“Dunking booth?” Ms. Thwaites inquired.

“The one Doctor Watson is presently constructing with Ferguson, for the fête.”

 “A dunking booth? For _our_ fête? I should say not!” cried Ms. Thwaites. She clutched her chest, suddenly as fluffed and ruffled as a perturbed magpie. “Really a very un _seem_ ly a sort of pastime, don’t you think? No, I shouldn’t think the archdeacon would approve of something so _vulgar_ as a dunking booth.”

“I see. In that case, I must be mistaken.” 

“Yes, I’m afraid you must be,” agreed Ms. Thwaites and, catching, no doubt, a flash of concern on my face, she added, “There must be some confusion, I’m sure. Won’t you come in and join me for tea?”

I made my apologies and my escape, hurrying down the lane as her echoing offers of tea went unheeded. There certainly was some confusion—for well over a month Watson had been keeping me up to speed, as well as my disinterest in the affair would permit him, on the construction of the dunking booth and the progress of the committee meetings. I had heard about every minor disagreement, every challenge in the design. For weeks he had come home smelling of lumber, nursing a callous on his palm or a splinter in his finger.

Why then, should Miss Thwaites have cause to call him delinquent in his council duties? How could she deny the existence of the dunking booth which seemed so clearly to be under construction?

My troubles were not assuaged once I arrived at the Ferguson house. I was greeted at the door by James, who, with sullen insistence, informed me that Watson was not there, nor was his father. That, in fact, neither of them _had_ been there since his father had left early that morning. We were joined shortly by the lady of the house, who passed James his youngest sister and turned to me with the bright, beaming face, which made it no mystery how Ferguson could love her so.

 “Why, Mr. Holmes, this is a surprise! Sam’s out, I’m afraid, but shouldn’t ya like somethin’ to eat?”

There are some people to whom it is impossible to deny anything—Watson is one such, and Emily Ferguson is another. I soon found myself ensconced in their sitting room, teacup in hand, beset on all sides by dark-haired, wide-eyed little Fergusons, who were all, even James, attempting to win my affections with demonstrations of the most elegant manners. In spite of my apprehensions, I let them steer the conversation, past the weather, now to the peaceful resolution of some sibling-conflict, now to how lovely that it was soon to be summer, until we finally emerged at my reason for coming:

“I suppose,” began I, “that you will be glad when this business of the summer fête has concluded, that you might have your husband back.”

“Oh, Sam finished the stalls for the fête ages—“ she stopped suddenly, raising a reproaching finger to her own mouth. “Or… yes, as ya said, Mr. Holmes.” 

I considered carefully how her lips pressed together, how her eyes darted every so often to the mantle clock, how the children fidgeted and hushed one another, some of the littler ones holding secrets in their mouths with their hands. The air was heavy with unspoken things. Feeling I had already put myself where I did not belong, I turned a blunt gaze to Mrs. Ferguson.

“Did your husband happen to mention where he was headed this morning?” 

Her face set. She pulled herself a little straighter, as honest people so often do before they lie, and answered firmly: “No, Sam never mentions anythin’ about his work to me. And with the children, there’s always more than enough to talk about as it is…”

That confirmed for me, everything. I thanked her kindly, and made my farewells to the Ferguson children, extracting myself from their company with promises to visit more often. I nodded and smiled and laughed, until the door closed safely behind me, and I could let the conclusions of my investigation settle heavily over me.

There was no denying it: I was being deceived. There seemed little doubt that the dunking booth, which Watson hadso elaborately described to me, did not exist. That Watson had contrived to escape from my company, for reasons that had nothing to do with the supposedly much-beloved fête, was equally evident. But to what aim? As I marched homeward, my mind purled and gurgled with possibilities. I have stated often it is the bane of deductive thinking to formulate opinions without all the facts, yet, I yielded to wanton indulgence, and speculated wildly. 

I pondered what need Watson had for Ferguson's company and painted myself quite green. I recalled every intimacy between: hands on shoulders, laughs at private jokes, warm glances, the tender (perhaps affectionate?) tone in which Watson spoke of him. Ridiculous, of course, absurd; Ferguson is twenty years his junior, with eleven children to prove his devotion to his wife. But then… suppose their clandestine friendship should mean only some unconsummated feeling on John’s part, deep and ernest enough to pull him into this charade! That alone would be enough to rend me.

So blinded was I by these grim imaginings that I nearly missed Ferguson passing me on the road. I was perhaps a mile out of town by this time, and nearing our cottage when I spotted him, or rather, he spotted me, for he darted from the main road to cut across the heath. His sudden change of direction caught my eye, as did hurry in his step, as it was quite evident from his demeanor he meant to avoid me. The speedy retreat of the guilty.

My pulse rang in my ears. There could be no doubt from where Ferguson was coming—I trudged the final yards to our front gate with my mind in a vortex of horrid possibilities. Secret yearnings, illicit touches, perhaps choked confessions of feeling, or no, it needed not be so explicit; that John would deceive me for the sake of being alone with another was sufficient to place a vice upon my heart, to send me reeling. 

John was in the front lawn as I pushed open the gate, and he made no effort to hide the alarm on his face upon seeing me. His greeting was feeble, stammering. I charged for him, brandishing an accusatory finger. I was sharp, dangerous, fragile: a splinter of glass.

“You!” I bellowed, “You _lied_ to me.”

“Sherlock—“

“There isn’t any dunking booth. You haven’t even _been_ to a committee meeting for weeks.” 

“I had to tell you something.” 

“Oh, did you?” 

“Well, yes,” he admitted, hands in his pockets.

 He gave me a shrug and a weak smile. Neither gesture seemed appropriate for the gravity of our confrontation. Had I meant so little to him? My jaw set. My fist clenched, my nails digging into my palms. Defeated, unwanted, I turned my head away. 

“Sherlock…” 

That was when I noticed it. Perched atop a newly erected post beneath the beech tree, not far from where John stood, was the true fruit of his mysterious labours: the most beautiful, most elaborate birdhouse I have ever witnessed. It looked for all the world a more glorious variant of our own cottage, including every portico, every cornice, yet each window and door was modeled for an avian resident—rounded entrances with perching dowels dotted the structure. The roof was neatly shingled, the siding trimmed and painted, everywhere my eyes looked they were met with new and loving details. I stood in admiring silence for some time, anger melting into awe.

“Steady,” chided John with a hand on my shoulder. I gave him cause to repeat himself, as I confess I was near to tears. “I thought for certain you’d guessed.”

I shook my head and made use of my handkerchief. “I dare say I didn’t. I rather thought—“

Now my suppositions seemed so foolish, I couldn’t help but to laugh. Watson instantly took my meaning, drawing me in with an arm about my shoulders.

“Was _that_ your brilliant deduction? Oh yes, me and eleven-with-one-on-the-way Ferguson!”

He laughed well at my expense, though I could not fault him for it. I suspected I could never again fault him for anything. We stepped forward, so I could better inspect my surprise. He explained how, seeing my despair at the loss of the pigeons, he and Ferguson had conceived of the structure that same night, planning how they might manage to build it without my knowing.

“I hoped if I couched it in with council-work, I should lose your interest rather immediately,” he added with a smug look.

“I’m afraid it won’t do for pigeons,” I noted, “but martins, starlings, swallows…”

“I take it you like it?” Beneath that question was another: Am I forgiven?

The tumult in my mind quieted and I considered both questions put before me. A pleasant breeze pushed the treetops here and there, while all manner of birds chittered away, perhaps considering their newest nesting option. The birdhouse looked very charming and stately where it stood. I pictured surgeon's fingers turned carpenters, whittling away to perfect every notch and groove. I did not relish being deceived, but it was my own poor logic which had upset me so—how often had I scolded Watson for theorizing in absence of data? Watson, who was beaming at me now, and though I am sure he did not doubt my answer, I affirmed his forgiveness with a kiss. 

As the years pass, I am still fond of my birdhouse, since fiendishly named The Dunking Booth in honor of its dubious heritage. Every spring it brings new residents to our yard, and I have been graced with the opportunity to observe so many of our feathered neighbors with ease. We have remained quite close to the Ferguson clan, which has added a new member since The Dunking Booth’s erection. Watson continues his work with the village council, and though he has never again given me cause to doubt his word, I have conceded to make a sometimes-councilman myself. After all, what better way to observe, than from up close?


End file.
